Truth and Knowledge

Introduction to The Philosophy of

Freedom

By Rudolf Steiner

This work, essentially Steiner's doctoral dissertation, which is subtitled

Introduction to the Philosophy of Freedom. is just that: an essential

work in the foundations of anthroposophy in which the epistemological

foundations of spiritual cognition are clearly and logically laid forth.

This is an authorized translation for the Western Hemisphere, and is

presented here with the kind permission of the Rudolf Steiner-

Nachlassverwaltung, Dornach, Switzerland.

Thanks to an anonymous donation, this lecture has been made

available.

To

DR. EDUARD VON HARTMANN

with the warm regard of the author

CONTENTS

Title Page of the First Edition of Truth and Knowledge

Cover Sheet

Bibliographical Note

Contents

Portrait of Rudolf Steiner

Preface

Introduction

i. Preliminary Remarks

ii. Kant's Basic Epistemological Question

iii. Epistemology Since Kant

iv. The Starting Point of Epistemology

v. Cognition and Reality

vi. Epistemology Free of Assumptions and Fichte's Science of

Knowledge

vii. Epistemological Conclusion

viii. Practical Conclusion Editorial and Reference Notes

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Rudolf Steiner's Die Philosophie der Freiheit was first published by the

Emil Felber Verlag, Berlin, 1894 in a first edition of 1,000 copies.The

second edition, revised and enlarged by the author, appeared under the

imprint of the Philosophisch-Anthroposophischer Verlag, Berlin, 1918,

and was followed by a third edition laterthat same year.

The same publisher issued a fourth edition in 1921.

The fifth, sixth and seventh editions were published in Dornach,

Switzerland by the PhilosophischAnthroposophischer Verlag am

Goetheanum in 1929, 1936 and 1939 respectively.The eighth edition

was published in Dresden in 1940.The ninth, tenth and eleventh

editions were published by the Verlag Freies Geistesleben, Stuttgart in

1947, 1949 and 1955. The present translation has been made from the

eleventh edition of 1955

In all, the eleven editions of Die Philosophie der Freiheit issued

between 1894 and 1955 totalled some 48,000 copies. A twelfth edition

was issued in Dornach in 1962 by the Rudolf Steiner-

Nachlassverwaltung. The first English translation of the book appeared

in London in 1916, translated by Prof. and Mrs. R. F. Alfred Hoernle

and edited by Harry Collison. This was based on the first German

edition of 1894.

When the revised and enlarged German edition appeared in 1918, the

same translators and editor brought out a second English translation of

the work. This was published in London in 1921.

A revised and amended edition of the 1921 version with preface by

Hermann Poppelbaum, Ph.D. appeared in London, 1939 and again in

1949.

The present translation is entirely new, having been undertaken

especially for the Centennial Edition of the Written Works of Rudolf

Steiner.

PREFACE

PRESENT-DAY philosophy suffers from an unhealthy faith in Kant.

This essay is intended to be a contribution toward overcoming this. It

would be wrong to belittle this man's lasting contributions toward the

development of German philosophy and science. But the time has come

to recognize that the foundation for a truly satisfying view of the world

and of life can be laid only by adopting a position which contrasts

strongly with Kant's. What did he achieve? He showed that the

foundation of things lying beyond the world of our senses and our

reason, and which his predecessors sought to find by means of

stereotyped concepts, is inaccessible to our faculty of knowledge. From

this he concluded that our scientific efforts must be limited to what is

within reach of experience, and that we cannot attain knowledge of the

supersensible foundation, of the “thing-initself.” But suppose the

“thing-in-itself” and a transcendental ultimate foundation of things are

nothing but illusions! It is easy to see that this is the case. It is an

instinctive urge, inseparable from human nature, to search for the

fundamental nature of things and their ultimate principles. This is the

basis of all scientific activity.

There is, however, not the slightest reason for seeking the foundation of

things outside the given physical and spiritual world, as long as a

comprehensive investigation of this world does not lead to the

discovery of elements within it that clearly point to an influence coming

from beyond it.

The aim of this essay is to show that everything necessary to explain

and account for the world is within the reach of our thinking. The

assumption that there are principles which belong to our world, but

lying outside it, is revealed as the prejudice of an out-dated philosophy

living in vain and illusory dogmas. Kant himself would have come to

this conclusion had he really investigated the powers inherent in our

thinking. Instead of this, he shows in the most complicated way that we

cannot reach the ultimate principles existing beyond our direct

experience, because of the way our faculty of knowledge functions.

There is, however, no reason for transferring these principles into

another world. Kant did indeed refute “dogmatic” philosophy, but he

put nothing in its place. This is why Kant was opposed by the German

philosophy which followed. Fichte, Schelling and Hegel did not worry

in the least about the limits to cognition erected by Kant, but sought the

ultimate principles within the world accessible to human reason. Even

Schopenhauer, though he maintained that the conclusions of Kant's

criticism of reason were eternal and irrefutable truths, found himself

compelled to search for the ultimate cause along paths very different

from those of Kant. The mistake of these thinkers was that they sought

knowledge of the highest truths without having first laid a foundation

by investigating the nature of knowledge itself. This is why the

imposing edifice of thought erected by Fichte, Schelling and Hegel

stands there, so to speak, without foundations. This had a bad effect on

the direction taken by the thought of these philosophers. Because they

did not understand the significance of the sphere of pure ideas and its

relationship to the realm of sense-perceptions, they added mistake to

mistake, one-sidedness to one-sidedness. It is no wonder that their all

too daring systems could not withstand the fierce opposition of an

epoch so ill-disposed toward philosophy; consequently, along with the

errors much of real value in their thought was mercilessly swept away.

The aim of the following inquiry is to remedy the lack described above.

Unlike Kant, the purpose here is not to show what our faculty of

knowledge cannot do, but rather to show what it is really able to

achieve.

The outcome of what follows is that truth is not, as is usually assumed,

an ideal reflection of something real, but is a product of the human

spirit, created by an activity which is free; this product would exist

nowhere if we did not create it ourselves. The object of knowledge is

not to repeat in conceptual form something which already exists, but

rather to create a completely new sphere, which when combined with

the world given to our senses constitutes complete reality. Thus man's

highest activity, his spiritual creativeness, is an organic part of the

universal world-process.

The world-process should not be considered a complete, enclosed

totality without this activity. Man is not a passive onlooker in relation

to evolution, merely repeating in mental pictures cosmic events taking

place without his participation; he is the active co-creator of the world-

process, and cognition is the most perfect link in the organism of the

universe.

This insight has the most significant consequences for the laws that

underlie our deeds, that is, our moral ideals; these, too, are to be

considered not as copies of something existing outside us, but as being

present solely within us. This also means rejecting the “categorical

imperative,” an external power whose commandments we have to

accept as moral laws, comparable to a voice from the Beyond that tells

us what to do or leave undone. Our moral ideals are our own free

creations. We have to fulfill only what we ourselves lay down as our

standard of conduct. Thus the insight that truth is the outcome of a free

deed also establishes a philosophy of morality, the foundation of which

is the completely free personality.

This, of course, is valid only when our power of thinking penetrates —

with complete insight — into the motivating impulses of our deeds. As

long as we are not clear about the reasons — either natural or

conceptual — for our conduct, we shall experience our motives as

something compelling us from outside, even though someone on a

higher level of spiritual development could recognize the extent to

which our motives originated within our own individuality. Every time

we succeed in penetrating a motive with clear understanding, we win a

victory in the realm of freedom.

The reader will come to see how this view — especially in its

epistemological aspects — is related to that of the most significant

philosophical work of our time, the world-view of Eduard von

Hartmann.

This essay constitutes a prologue to a The Philosophy of Freedom (The

Philosophy of Spiritual Activity), a work which will appear shortly.

Clearly, the ultimate goal of all knowledge is to enhance the value of

human existence. He who does not consider this to be his ultimate goal,

only works as he learned from those who taught him; he “investigates”

because that happens to be what he has learned to do. He can never be

called “an independent thinker.”

The true value of learning lies in the philosophical demonstration of the

significance of its results for humanity. It is my aim to contribute to

this. But perhaps modern science does not ask for justification! If so,

two things are certain. first, that I shall have written a superfluous

work; second, that modern scholars are striving in vain, and do not

know their own aims.

In concluding this preface, I cannot omit a personal remark. Until now,

I have always presented my philosophical views in connection with

Goethe's world-view. I was first introduced to this by my revered

teacher, Karl Julius Schroer who, in my view, reached such heights as a

scholar of Goethe's work because he always looked beyond the

particular to the Idea.

In this work, however, I hope to have shown that the edifice of my

thought is a whole that rests upon its own foundation, and need not be

derived from Goethe's world-view. My thoughts, as here set forth, and

as they will be further amplified in The Philosophy of Spiritual Activity,

have been developed over many years. And it is with a feeling of deep

gratitude that I here acknowledge how the friendliness of the Specht

family in Vienna, while I was engaged in the education of their

children, provided me with an ideal environment for developing these

ideas; to this should be added that I owe the final shape of many

thoughts now to be found in my “Philosophy of Spiritual Activity” to the

stimulating talks with my deeply appreciated friend, Rosa Mayreder in

Vienna; her own literary works, which spring from a sensitive, noble,

artistic nature, presumably will soon be published.

Written in Vienna in the beginning of December 1891.

Dr. Rudolf Steiner

INTRODUCTION

THE OBJECT of the following discussion is to analyze the act of

cognition and reduce it to its fundamental elements, in order to enable

us to formulate the problem of knowledge correctly and to indicate a

way to its solution. The discussion shows, through critical analysis, that

no theory of knowledge based on Kant's line of thought can lead to a

solution of the problems involved. However, it must be acknowledged

that Volkelt's work, with its thorough examination of the concept of

“experience” provided a foundation without which my attempt to

define precisely the concept of the “given” would have been very much

more difficult. It is hoped in this essay to lay a foundation for

overcoming the subjectivism inherent in all theories of knowledge

based on Kant's philosophy. Indeed, I believe I have achieved this by

showing that the subjective form in which the picture of the world

presents itself to us in the act of cognition — prior to any scientific

explanation of it — is merely a necessary transitional stage which is

overcome in the very process of knowledge. In fact the experience

which positivism and neo-Kantianism advance as the one and only

certainty is just the most subjective one of all. By showing this, the

foundation is also laid for objective idealism, which is a necessary

consequence of a properly understood theory of knowledge. This

objective idealism differs from Hegel's metaphysical, absolute idealism,

in that it seeks the reason for the division of reality into given existence

and concept in the cognizing subject itself; and holds that this division

is resolved, not in an objective world-dialectic but in the subjective

process of cognition. I have already advanced this viewpoint in An

Outline of a Theory of Knowledge, 1885, but my method of inquiry was

a different one, nor did I analyze the basic elements in the act of

cognition as will be done here.

PRELIMINARY REMARKS

EPISTEMOLOGY is the scientific study of what all other sciences

presuppose without examining it: cognition itself. It is thus a

philosophical science, fundamental to all other sciences. Only through

epistemology can we learn the value and significance of all insight

gained through the other sciences. Thus it provides the foundation for

all scientific effort. It is obvious that it can fulfill its proper function

only by making no presuppositions itself, as far as this is possible,

about man's faculty of knowledge. This is generally accepted.

Nevertheless, when the better-known systems of epistemology are

more closely examined it becomes apparent that a whole series of

presuppositions are made at the beginning, which cast doubt on the

rest of the argument. It is striking that such hidden assumptions are

usually made at the outset, when the fundamental problems of

epistemology are formulated. But if the essential problems of a science

are misstated, the right solution is unlikely to be forthcoming. The

history of science shows that whole epochs have suffered from

innumerable mistakes which can be traced to the simple fact that

certain problems were wrongly formulated. To illustrate this, we need

not go back as far as Aristotle's physics or Raymond Lull's Ars Magna;

there are plenty of more recent examples. For instance, innumerable

problems concerning the purpose of rudimentary organs of certain

organisms could only be rightly formulated when the condition for

doing so had first been created through the discovery of the

fundamental law of biogenesis. While biology was influenced by

teleological views, the relevant problems could not be formulated in a

way which could lead to a satisfactory answer. For example, what

fantastic ideas were entertained concerning the function of the pineal

gland in the human brain, as long as the emphasis was on its purpose!

Then comparative anatomy threw some light on the matter by asking a

different question; instead of asking what the organ was “for,” inquiry

began as to whether, in man, it might be merely a remnant from a lower

level of evolution. Another example: how many physical questions had

to be modified after the discovery of the laws of the mechanical

equivalent of heat and of conservation of energy! In short, success in

scientific research depends essentially on whether the problems can be

formulated rightly. Even though epistemology occupies a very special

place as the basis presupposed by the other sciences, nevertheless,

successful progress can only be expected when its fundamental

problems are correctly formulated.

The discussion which follows aims so to formulate the problem of

cognition that in this very formulation it will do full justice to the

essential feature of epistemology, namely, the fact that it is a science

which must contain no presuppositions. A further aim is to use this

philosophical basis for science to throw light on Johann Gottlieb

Fichte's philosophy of science. Why Fichte's attempt in particular to

provide an absolutely certain basis for the sciences is linked to the aims

of this essay, will become clear in due course.

KANT'S BASIC EPISTEMOLOGICAL QUESTION

KANT IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED to be the founder of

epistemology in the modern sense. However, the history of philosophy

before Kant contains a number of investigations which must be

considered as more than mere beginnings of such a science. Volkelt

points to this in his standard work on epistemology, saying that critical

treatments of this science began as early as Locke. However,

discussions which today come under the heading of epistemology can

be found as far back as in the philosophy of ancient Greece. Kant then

went into every aspect of all the relevant problems, and innumerable

thinkers following in his footsteps went over the ground so thoroughly

that in their works or in Kant's are to be found repetitions of all earlier

attempts to solve these problems. Thus where a factual rather than a

historical study of epistemology is concerned, there is no danger of

omitting anything important if one considers only the period since the

appearance of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.

All earlier achievements in this field have been repeated since Kant.

Kant's fundamental question concerning epistemology is: How are

synthetical judgments a priori possible? Let us consider whether or not

this question is free of presuppositions. Kant formulates it because he

believes that we can arrive at certain, unconditional knowledge only if

we can prove the validity of synthetical judgments a priori. He says:

“In the solution of the above problem is comprehended at the same

time the possibility of the use of pure reason in the foundation and

construction of all sciences which contain theoretical knowledge a

priori of objects.” “Upon the solution of this problem depends the

existence or downfall of the science of metaphysics.”

Is this problem as Kant formulates it, free of all presuppositions? Not at

all, for it says that a system of absolute, certain knowledge can be

erected only on a foundation of judgments that are synthetical and

acquired independently of all experience. Kant calls a judgment

“synthetical” where the concept of the predicate brings to the concept

of the subject something which lies completely outside the subject —

“although it stands in connection with the subject,” by contrast, in

analytical judgment, the predicate merely expresses something which is

already contained (though hidden) in the subject. It would be out of

place here to go into the extremely acute objections made by Johannes

Rehmke to this classification of judgments. For our present purpose it

will suffice to recognize that we can arrive at true knowledge only

through judgments which add one concept to another in such a way

that the content of the second was not already contained — at least for

us — in the first. If, with Kant, we wish to call this category of judgment

synthetical, then it must be agreed that knowledge in the form of

judgment can only be attained when the connection between predicate

and subject is synthetical in this sense. But the position is different in

regard to the second part of Kant's question, which demands that these

judgments must be acquired a priori, i.e., independent of all

experience. After all, it is conceivable that such judgments might not

exist at all. A theory of knowledge must leave open, to begin with, the

question of whether we can arrive at a judgment solely by means of

experience, or by some other means as well. Indeed, to an unprejudiced

mind it must seem that for something to be independent of experience

in this way is impossible. For whatever object we are concerned to

know, we must become aware of it directly and individually, that is, it

must become experience. We acquire mathematical judgment too, only

through direct experience of particular single examples. This is the case

even if we regard them, with Otto Liebmann as rooted in a certain

faculty of our consciousness. In this case, we must say: This or that

proposition must be valid, for, if its truth were denied, consciousness

would be denied as well; but we could only grasp its content, as

knowledge, through experience in exactly the same way as we

experience a process in outer nature. Irrespective of whether the

content of such a proposition contains elements which guarantee its

absolute validity or whether it is certain for other reasons, the fact

remains that we cannot make it our own unless at some stage it

becomes experience for us. This is the first objection to Kant's question.

The second consists in the fact that at the beginning of a theoretical

investigation of knowledge, one ought not to maintain that no valid and

absolute knowledge can be obtained by means of experience. For it is

quite conceivable that experience itself could contain some

characteristic feature which would guarantee the validity of insight

gained by means of it.

Two presuppositions are thus contained in Kant's formulation of the

question. One presupposition is that we need other means of gaining

knowledge besides experience, and the second is that all knowledge

gained through experience is only approximately valid. It does not

occur to Kant that these principles need proof, that they are open to

doubt. They are prejudices which he simply takes over from dogmatic

philosophy and then uses as the basis of his critical investigations.

Dogmatic philosophy assumes them to be valid, and simply uses them

to arrive at knowledge accordingly; Kant makes the same assumptions

and merely inquires under what conditions they are valid. But suppose

they are not valid at all? In that case, the edifice of Kant's doctrine has

no foundation whatever.

All that Kant brings forward in the five paragraphs preceding his actual

formulation of the problem, is an attempt to prove that mathematical

judgments are synthetical (an attempt which Robert Zimmermann, if

he does not refute it, at least shows it to be highly questionable). But

the two assumptions discussed above are retained as scientific

prejudices. In the Critique of Pure Reason it is said:

“Experience no doubt teaches us that this or that object is constituted

in such and such a manner, but not that it could not possibly exist

otherwise.” “Experience never exhibits strict and absolute, but only

assumed and comparative universality (by induction).”

In Prolegomena we find it said:

“Firstly, as regards the sources of metaphysical knowledge, the very

conception of the latter shows that these cannot be empirical. Its

principles (under which not merely its axioms, but also its fundamental

conceptions are included) must consequently never be derived from

experience, since it is not physical but metaphysical knowledge, i.e.,

knowledge beyond experience, that is wanted.”

And finally Kant says:

“Before all, be it observed, that proper mathematical propositions are

always judgments a priori, and not empirical, because they carry along

with them the conception of necessity, which cannot be given by

experience. If this be demurred to, it matters not; I will then limit my

assertion to pure mathematics, the very conception of which implies

that it consists of knowledge altogether non-empirical and a priori.”

No matter where we open the Critique of Pure Reason we find that all

the investigations pursued in it are based on these dogmatic principles.

Cohen and Stadler attempt to prove that Kant has established the a

priori nature of mathematical and purely scientific principles. However,

all that the Critique of Pure Reason attempts to show can be summed

up as follows: Mathematics and pure natural science are a priori

sciences; from this it follows that the form of all experiences must be

inherent in the subject itself. Therefore, the only thing left that is

empirically given is the material of sensations. This is built up into a

system of experiences, the form of which is inherent in the subject. The

formal truths of a priori theories have meaning and significance only as

principles which regulate the material of sensation; they make

experience possible, but do not go further than experience. However,

these formal truths are the synthetical judgment a priori, and they must

— as condition necessary for experience — extend as far as experience

itself. The Critique of Pure Reason does not at all prove that

mathematics and pure science are a priori sciences but only establishes

their sphere of validity, pre-supposing that their truths are acquired

independently of experience. Kant, in fact, avoids discussing the

question of proof of the a priori sciences in that he simply excludes that

section of mathematics (see conclusion of Kant's last statement quoted

above) where even in his own opinion the a priori nature is open to

doubt; and he limits himself to that section where he believes proof can

be inferred from the concepts alone. Even Johannes Volkelt finds that:

“Kant starts from the positive assumption that a necessary and

universal knowledge exists as an actual fact. These presuppositions

which Kant never specifically attempted to prove, are so contrary to a

proper critical theory of knowledge that one must seriously ask oneself

whether the Critique of Pure Reason is valid as critical epistemology.”

Volkelt does find that there are good reasons for answering this

question affirmatively, but he adds: “The critical conviction of Kant's

theory of knowledge is nevertheless seriously disturbed by this

dogmatic assumption.” It is evident from this that Volkelt, too, finds

that the Critique of Pure Reason as a theory of knowledge, is not free of

presuppositions.

O. Liebmann, Hölder, Windelband, Ueberweg, Ed. v. Hartmann and

Kuno Fischer, hold essentially similar views on this point, namely, that

Kant bases his whole argument on the assumption that knowledge of

pure mathematics and natural science is acquired a priori.

That we acquire knowledge independently of all experience, and that

the insight gained from experience is of general value only to a limited

extent, can only be conclusions derived from some other investigation.

These assertions must definitely be preceded by an examination both of

the nature of experience and of knowledge. Examination of experience

could lead to the first principle; examination of knowledge, to the

second.

In reply to these criticisms of Kant's critique of reason, it could be said

that every theory of knowledge must first lead the reader to where the

starting point, free of all presuppositions, is to be found. For what we

possess as knowledge at any moment in our life is far removed from

this point, and we must first be led back to it artificially. In actual fact,

it is a necessity for every epistemologist to come to such a purely

didactic arrangement concerning the starting point of this science. But

this must always be limited merely to showing to what extent the

starting point for cognition really is the absolute start; it must be

presented in purely self evident, analytical sentences and, unlike Kant's

argument, contain no assertions which will influence the content of the

subsequent discussion. It is also incumbent on the epistemologist to

show that his starting point is really free of all presuppositions. All this,

however, has nothing to do with the nature of the starting point itself,

but is quite independent of it and makes no assertions about it. Even

when he begins to teach mathematics, the teacher must try to convince

the pupil that certain truths are to be understood as axioms. But no one

would assert that the content of the axioms is made dependent on these

preliminary considerations. [In the chapter titled “The Starting Point of

Epistemology,” I shall show to what extent my discussion fulfils these

conditions.] In exactly the same way the epistemologist must show in

his introductory remarks how one can arrive at a starting point free of

all presuppositions; yet the actual content of this starting point must be

quite independent of these considerations. However, anyone who, like

Kant, makes definite, dogmatic assertions at the very outset, is certainly

very far from fulfilling these conditions when he introduces his theory

of knowledge.

EPISTEMOLOGY SINCE KANT

ALL PROPOUNDERS of theories of knowledge since Kant have been

influenced to a greater or lesser degree by the mistaken way he

formulated the problem of knowledge. As a result of his “a priorism” he

advanced the view that all objects given to us are our representations.

Ever since, this view has been made the basic principle and starting

point of practically all epistemological systems. The only thing we can

establish as an immediate certainty is the principle that we are aware of

our representations; this principle has become an almost universally

accepted belief of philosophers. As early as 1792 G. E. Schulze

maintained in his Aenesidemus that all our knowledge consists of mere

representations, and that we can never go beyond our representations.

Schopenhauer, with a characteristic philosophical fervor, puts forward

the view that the enduring achievement of Kantian philosophy is the

principle that the world is “my representation.” Eduard von Hartmann

finds this principle so irrefutable that in his book, Kritische

Grundlegung des transzendentalen Realismus (Critical Basis of

Transcendental Realism) he assumes that his readers, by critical

reflection, have overcome the naive identification of the perceptual

picture with the thing-in-itself, that they have convinced themselves of

the absolute diversity of the subjective-ideal content of consciousness

— given as perceptual object through the act of representing — and the

thing existing by itself, independent both of the act of representing and

of the form of consciousness; in other words, readers who have entirely

convinced themselves that the totality of what is given us directly

consists of our representations. In his final work on epistemology,

Eduard von Hartmann did attempt to provide a foundation for this

view. The validity of this in relation to a theory of knowledge free from

presuppositions, will be discussed later. Otto Liebmann claims that the

principle:

“Consciousness cannot jump beyond itself” must be the inviolable and

foremost principle of any science of knowledge. Volkelt is of the

opinion that the first and most immediate truth is: “All our knowledge

extends, to begin with, only as far as our representations” he called this

the most positive principle of knowledge, and considered a theory of

knowledge to be “eminently critical” only if it “considers this principle

as the sole stable point from which to begin all philosophizing, and

from then on thinks it through consistently.” Other philosophers make

other assertions the center of epistemology, e.g.: the essential problem

is the question of the relation between thinking and existence, as well

as the possibility of mediation between them, or again: How does that

which exists become conscious? (Rehmke) etc. Kirchmann starts from

two epistemological axioms: “the perceived is” and “the contradictory is

not.”

According to E. L. Fischer knowledge consists in the recognition of

something factual and real. He lays down this dogma without proof as

does Goring, who maintains something similar: “Knowledge always

means recognizing something that exists; this is a fact that neither

scepticism nor Kantian criticism can deny.” The two latter philosophers

simply lay down the law: This they say is knowledge, without judging

themselves.

Even if these different assertions were correct, or led to a correct

formulation of the problem, the place to discuss them is definitely not

at the beginning of a theory of knowledge. For they all represent at the

outset a quite specific insight into the sphere of knowledge. To say that

my knowledge extends to begin with only as far as my representations,

is to express a quite definite judgment about cognition. In this sentence

I add a predicate to the world given to me, namely, its existence in the

form of representation. But how do I know, prior to all knowledge, that

the things given to me are representations?

Thus this principle ought not to be placed at the foundation of a theory

of knowledge; that this is true is most easily appreciated by tracing the

line of thought that leads up to it. This principle has become in effect a

part of the whole modern scientific consciousness. The considerations

which have led to it are to be found systematically and comprehensively

summarized in Part I of Eduard von Hartmann's book, Das

Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie (The Fundamental Problem of

Epistemology). What is advanced there can thus serve as a kind of

guide when discussing the reasons that led to the above assumption.

These reasons are physical, psycho-physical, physiological, as well as

philosophical. The physicist who observes phenomena that occur in our

environment when, for instance, we perceive a sound, is led to conclude

that these phenomena have not the slightest resemblance to what we

directly perceive as sound. Out there in the space surrounding us,

nothing is to be found except vibrations of material bodies and of air. It

is concluded from this that what we ordinarily call sound or tone is

solely a subjective reaction of our organism to those wave-like

movements. Likewise it is found that light, color and heat are

something purely subjective. The phenomena of color-diffraction,

refraction, interference and polarization show that these sensations

correspond to certain transverse vibrations in external space, which, so

it is thought, must be ascribed partly to material bodies, partly to an

infinitely fine elastic substance, the ether. Furthermore, because of

certain physical phenomena, the physicist finds himself compelled to

abandon the belief in the continuity of objects in space, and to analyze

them into systems of minute particles (molecules, atoms) the size of

which, in relation to the distance between them, is immeasurably small.

Thus he concludes that material bodies affect one another across empty

space, so that in reality force is exerted from a distance. The physicist

believes he is justified in assuming that a material body does not affect

our senses of touch and warmth by direct contact, because there must

be a certain distance, even if very small, between the body and the place

where it touches the skin. From this he concludes further that what we

sense as the hardness or warmth of a body, for example, is only the

reaction of the peripheral nerves of our senses of touch and warmth to

the molecular forces of bodies which act upon them across empty

space.

These considerations of the physicist are amplified by those of the

psycho-physicist in the form of a science of specific sense-energies. J.

Müller has shown that each sense can be affected only in a

characteristic manner which is conditioned by its structure, so that it

always reacts in the same way to any external stimulus. If the optic

nerve is stimulated, there is a sensation of light, whether the stimulus is

in the form of pressure, electric current, or light. On the other hand, the

same external phenomenon produces quite different sensations,

according to which sense organ transmits it. This leads to the

conclusion that there is only one kind of phenomenon in the external

world, namely motion, and that the many aspects of the world which

we perceive derive essentially from the reaction of our senses to this

phenomenon. According to this view, we do not perceive the external

world. itself, but merely the subjective sensations which it releases in

us.

Thus physiology is added to physics. Physics deals with the phenomena

occurring outside our organism to which our perceptions correspond;

physiology aims to investigate the processes that occur in man's body

when he experiences a certain sense impression. It shows that the

epidermis is completely insensitive to external stimuli. In order to

reach the nerves connected with our sense of touch on the periphery of

the body, an external vibration must first be transmitted through the

epidermis. In the case of hearing and vision the external motion is

further modified through a number of organs in these sense-tools,

before it reaches the corresponding nerve. These effects, produced in

the organs at the periphery of the body, now have to be conducted

through the nerve to the central organ, where sensations are finally

produced through purely mechanical processes in the brain. It is

obvious that the stimulus which acts on the sense organ is so changed

through these modifications that there can be no similarity between

what first affected the sense organs, and the sensations that finally arise

in consciousness. The result of these considerations is summed up by

Hartmann in the following words:

“The content of consciousness consists fundamentally of the sensations

which are the soul's reflex response to processes of movement in the

uppermost part of the brain, and these have not the slightest

resemblance to the molecular movements which called them into

being.”

If this line of thought is correct and is pursued to its conclusion, it must

then be admitted that our consciousness does not contain the slightest

element of what could be called external existence.

To the physical and physiological arguments against so-called “naive

realism” Hartmann adds further objections which he describes as

essentially philosophical. A logical examination of the first two

objections reveals that in fact one can arrive at the above result only by

first assuming the existence and interrelations of external things, as

ordinary naive consciousness does, and then investigating how this

external world enters our consciousness by means of our organism. We

have seen that between receiving a sense impression and becoming

conscious of a sensation, every trace of such an external world is lost,

and all that remains in consciousness are our representations. We must

therefore assume that our picture of the external world is built up by

the soul, using the material of sensations. First of all, a spatial picture is

constructed using the sensations produced by sight and touch, and

sensations arising from the other senses are then added. When we are

compelled to think of a certain complex of sensations as connected, we

are led to the concept of matter, which we consider to be the carrier of

sensations. If we notice that some sensations associated with a

substance disappear, while others arise, we ascribe this to a change

regulated by the causal laws in the world of phenomena. According to

this view, our whole world-picture is composed of subjective sensations

arranged by our own soul-activity. Hartmann says: “Thus all that the

subject perceives are modifications of its own soul-condition and

nothing else.”

Let us examine how this conviction is arrived at. The argument may be

summarized as follows: If an external world exists then we do not

perceive it as such, but through our organism transform it into a world

of representations. When followed out consistently, this is a self-

canceling assumption. In any case, can this argument be used to

establish any conviction at all? Are we justified in regarding our given

world-picture as a subjective content of representations, just because

we arrive inevitably at this conclusion if we start from the assumption

made by naive consciousness? After all, the aim was just to prove this

assumption invalid. It should then be possible for an assertion to be

wrong, and yet lead to a correct result. This can happen, but the result

cannot then be said to have been proved by the assertion.

The view which accepts the reality of our directly given picture of the

world as certain and beyond doubt, is usually called naive realism. The

opposite view, which regards this world-picture as merely the content

of our consciousness, is called transcendental idealism. Thus the

preceding discussion could also be summarized as follows:

Transcendental idealism demonstrates its truth by using the same

premises as the naive realism which it aims to refute. Transcendental

idealism is justified if naive realism is proved incorrect, but its

incorrectness is only demonstrated by means of the incorrect view

itself. Once this is realized there is no alternative but to abandon this

path and to attempt to arrive at another view of the world. Does this

mean proceeding by trial and error until we happen to hit on the right

one? That is Hartmann's approach when he believes his

epistemological standpoint established on the grounds that his view

explains the phenomena, whereas others do not. According to him the

various world-views are engaged in a sort of struggle for existence in

which the fittest is ultimately accepted as victor. But the inconsistency

of this procedure is immediately apparent, for there might well be other

hypotheses which would explain the phenomena equally satisfactorily.

For this reason we prefer to adhere to the above argument for the

refuting of naive realism, and investigate precisely where its weakness

lies. After all, naive realism is the viewpoint from which we all start. It

is therefore the proper starting-point for a critical investigation. By

recognizing its shortcomings we shall be led to the right path much

more surely than by simply trusting to luck.

The subjectivism outlined above is based on the use of thinking for

elaborating certain facts. This presupposes that, starting from certain

facts, a correct conclusion can be obtained through logical thinking

(logical combination of particular observations). But the justification

for using thinking in this way is not examined by this philosophical

approach. This is its weakness. While naive realism begins by assuming

that the content of experience, as we perceive it, is an objective reality

without examining if this is so, the standpoint just characterized sets

out from the equally uncritical conviction that thinking can be used to

arrive at scientifically valid conclusions. In contrast to naive realism,

this view could be called naive rationalism. To justify this term, a brief

comment on the concept of “naive” is necessary here. A. Döring tries to

define this concept in his essay, Ueber den Begriff des naiven

Realismus (Concerning the Concept of naive Realism). He says:

“The concept 'naive' designates the zero point in the scale of reflection

about one's own relation to what one is doing. A naive content may well

be correct, for although it is unreflecting and therefore simply non-

critical or uncritical, this lack of reflection and criticism excludes the

objective assurance of truth, and includes the possibility and danger of

error, yet by no means necessitates them. One can be equally naive in

one's life of feeling and will, as in the life of representing and thinking

in the widest sense; furthermore, one may express this inner life in a

naive manner rather than repressing and modifying it through

consideration and reflection. To be naive means not to be influenced, or

at least not consciously influenced by tradition, education or rules; it

means to be, in all spheres of life, what the root of the word: 'nativus'

implies. i.e., unconscious, impulsive, instinctive, daimonic.”

Starting from this, we will endeavor to define “naive” still more

precisely. In all our activities, two things must be taken into account:

the activity itself, and our knowledge of its laws. We may be completely

absorbed in the activity without worrying about its laws. The artist is in

this position when he does not reflect about the laws according to

which he creates, but applies them, using feeling and sensitivity. We

may call him “naive.” It is possible, however, to observe oneself, and

enquire into the laws inherent in one's own activity, thus abandoning

the naive consciousness just described through knowing exactly the

scope of and justification for what one does. This I shall call critical. I

believe this definition comes nearest to the meaning of this concept as

it has been used in philosophy, with greater or lesser clarity, ever since

Kant. Critical reflection then is the opposite of the naive approach. A

critical attitude is one that comes to grips with the laws of its own

activity in order to discover their reliability and limits. Epistemology

can only be a critical science. For its object is an essentially subjective

activity of man: cognition, and it wishes to demonstrate the laws

inherent in cognition. Thus everything “naive” must be excluded from

this science. Its strength must lie in doing precisely what many

thinkers, inclined more toward the practical doing of things, pride

themselves that they have never done, namely, “think about thinking.”

THE STARTING POINT OF EPISTEMOLOGY

AS WE HAVE SEEN in the preceding chapters, an epistemological

investigation must begin by rejecting existing knowledge. Knowledge is

something brought into existence by man, something that has arisen

through his activity. If a theory of knowledge is really to explain the

whole sphere of knowledge, then it must start from something still

quite untouched by the activity of thinking, and what is more, from

something which lends to this activity its first impulse. This starting

point must lie outside the act of cognition, it must not itself be

knowledge. But it must be sought immediately prior to cognition, so

that the very next step man takes beyond it is the activity of cognition.

This absolute starting point must be determined in such a way that it

admits nothing already derived from cognition.

Only our directly given world-picture can offer such a starting point,

i.e. that picture of the world which presents itself to man before he has

subjected it to the processes of knowledge in any way, before he has

asserted or decided anything at all about it by means of thinking. This

“directly given” picture is what flits past us, disconnected, but still

undifferentiated. [Differentiation of the given, indistinct, world picture

into distinct entities is already an act of thought-activity.] In it, nothing

appears distinguished from, related to, or determined by, anything else.

At this stage, so to speak, no object or event is yet more important or

significant than any other. The most rudimentary organ of an animal,

which, in the light of further knowledge may turn out to be quite

unimportant for its development and life, appears before us with the

same claims for our attention as the noblest and most essential part of

the organism. Before our conceptual activity begins, the world-picture

contains neither substance, quality nor cause and effect; distinctions

between matter and spirit, body and soul, do not yet exist.

Furthermore, any other predicate must also be excluded from the

world-picture at this stage. The picture can be considered neither as

reality nor as appearance, neither subjective nor objective, neither as

chance nor as necessity; whether it is “thing-in-itself,” or mere

representation, cannot be decided at this stage. For, as we have seen,

knowledge of physics and physiology which leads to a classification of

the “given” under one or the other of the above headings, cannot be a

basis for a theory of knowledge.

If a being with a fully developed human intelligence were suddenly

created out of nothing and then confronted the world, the first

impression made on his senses and his thinking would be something

like what I have just characterized as the directly given world-picture.

In practice, man never encounters this world-picture in this form at any

time in his life; he never experiences a division between a purely

passive awareness of the “directly-given” and a thinking recognition of

it. This fact could lead to doubt about my description of the starting

point for a theory of knowledge. Hartmann says for example:

“We are not concerned with the hypothetical content of consciousness

in a child which is just becoming conscious or in an animal at the

lowest level of life, since the philosophizing human being has no

experience of this; if he tries to reconstruct the content of

consciousness of beings on primitive biogenetic or ontogenetic levels,

he must base his conclusions on the way he experiences his own

consciousness. Our first task, therefore, is to establish the content of

man's consciousness when he begins philosophical reflection.”

The objection to this, however, is that the world-picture with which we

begin philosophical reflection already contains predicates mediated

through cognition. These cannot be accepted uncritically, but must be

carefully removed from the world-picture so that it can be considered

free of anything introduced through the process of knowledge. This

division between the “given” and the “known” will not in fact, coincide

with any stage of human development; the boundary must be drawn

artificially. But this can be done at every level of development so long

as we draw the dividing line correctly between what confronts us free of

all conceptual definitions, and what cognition subsequently makes of it.

It might be objected here that I have already made use of a number of

conceptual definitions in order to extract from the world-picture as it

appears when completed by man, that other world-picture which I

described as the directly given. However, what we have extracted by

means of thought does not characterize the directly given world-

picture, nor define nor express anything about it; what it does is to

guide our attention to the dividing line where the starting point for

cognition is to be found. The question of truth or error, correctness or

incorrectness, does not enter into this statement, which is concerned

with the moment preceding the point where a theory of knowledge

begins. It serves merely to guide us deliberately to this starting point.

No one proceeding to consider epistemological questions could

possibly be said to be standing at the starting point of cognition, for he

already possesses a certain amount of knowledge. To remove from this

all that has been contributed by cognition, and to establish a pre-

cognitive starting point, can only be done conceptually. But such

concepts are not of value as knowledge; they have the purely negative

function of removing from sight all that belongs to knowledge and of

leading us to the point where knowledge begins. These considerations

act as signposts pointing to where the act of cognition first appears, but

at this stage, do not themselves form part of the act of cognition.

Whatever the epistemologist proposes in order to establish his starting

point raises, to begin with, no question of truth or error, but only of its

suitability for this task. From the starting point, too, all error is

excluded, for error can only begin with cognition, and therefore cannot

arise before cognition sets in.

Only a theory of knowledge that starts from considerations of this kind

can claim to observe this last principle. For if the starting point is some

object (or subject) to which is attached any conceptual definition, then

the possibility of error is already present in the starting point, namely

in the definition itself. Justification of the definition will then depend

upon the laws inherent in the act of cognition. But these laws can be

discovered only in the course of the epistemological investigation itself.

Error is wholly excluded only by saying: I eliminate from my world-

picture all conceptual definitions arrived at through cognition and

retain only what enters my field of observation without any activity on

my part. When on principle I refrain from making any statement, I

cannot make a mistake.

Error, in relation to knowledge, i.e. epistemologically, can occur only

within the act of cognition. Sense deceptions are not errors. That the

moon upon rising appears larger than it does at its zenith is not an

error but a fact governed by the laws of nature. A mistake in knowledge

would occur only if, in using thinking to combine the given perceptions,

we misinterpreted “larger” and “smaller.” But this interpretation is part

of the act of cognition.

To understand cognition exactly in all its details, its origin and starting

point must first be grasped. It is clear, furthermore, that what precedes

this primary starting point must not be included in an explanation of

cognition, but must be presupposed. Investigation of the essence of

what is here presupposed, is the task of the various branches of

scientific knowledge. The present aim, however, is not to acquire

specific knowledge of this or that element, but to investigate cognition

itself. Until we have understood the act of knowledge, we cannot judge

the significance of statements about the content of the world arrived at

through the act of cognition.

This is why the directly given is not defined as long as the relation of

such a definition to what is defined is not known. Even the concept:

“directly given” includes no statement about what precedes cognition.

Its only purpose is to point to this given, to turn our attention to it. At

the starting point of a theory of knowledge, the concept is only the first

initial relation between cognition and world-content. This description

even allows for the possibility that the total world-content would turn

out to be only a figment of our own “I,” which would mean that extreme

subjectivism would be true; subjectivism is not something that exists as

given. It can only be a conclusion drawn from considerations based on

cognition, i.e. it would have to be confirmed by the theory of

knowledge; it could not be assumed as its basis.

This directly given world-content includes everything that enters our

experience in the widest sense: sensations. perceptions, opinions,

feelings, deeds, pictures of dreams and imaginations, representations,

concepts and ideas. Illusions and hallucinations too, at this stage are

equal to the rest of the world-content. For their relation to other

perceptions can be revealed only through observation based on

cognition.

When epistemology starts from the assumption that all the elements

just mentioned constitute the content of our consciousness, the

following question immediately arises: How is it possible for us to go

beyond our consciousness and recognize actual existence; where can

the leap be made from our subjective experiences to what lies beyond

them? When such an assumption is not made, the situation is different.

Both consciousness and the representation of the “I” are, to begin with,

only parts of the directly given and the relationship of the latter to the

two former must be discovered by means of cognition. Cognition is not

to be defined in terms of consciousness, but vice versa: both

consciousness and the relation between subject and object in terms of

cognition. Since the “given” is left without predicate, to begin with, the

question arises as to how it is defined at all; how can any start be made

with cognition? How does one part of the world-picture come to be

designated as perception and the other as concept, one thing as

existence, another as appearance, this as cause and that as effect; how

is it that we can separate ourselves from what is objective and regard

ourselves as “I” in contrast to the “not-I?”

We must find the bridge from the world-picture as given, to that other

world-picture which we build up by means of cognition. Here, however,

we meet with the following difficulty: As long as we merely stare

passively at the given we shall never find a point of attack where we can

gain a foothold, and from where we can then proceed with cognition.

Somewhere in the given we must find a place where we can set to work,

where something exists which is akin to cognition. If everything were

really only given, we could do no more than merely stare into the

external world and stare indifferently into the inner world of our

individuality. We would at most be able to describe things as something

external to us; we should never be able to understand them. Our

concepts would have a purely external relation to that to which they

referred; they would not be inwardly related to it. For real cognition

depends on finding a sphere somewhere in the given where our

cognizing activity does not merely presuppose something given, but

finds itself active in the very essence of the given. In other words:

precisely through strict adherence to the given as merely given, it must

become apparent that not everything is given. Insistence on the given

alone must lead to the discovery of something which goes beyond the

given. The reason for so insisting is not to establish some arbitrary

starting point for a theory of knowledge, but to discover the true one. In

this sense, the given also includes what according to its very nature is

not-given. The latter would appear, to begin with, as formally a part of

the given, but on closer scrutiny, would reveal its true nature of its own

accord.

The whole difficulty in understanding cognition comes from the fact

that we ourselves do not create the content of the world. If we did this,

cognition would not exist at all. I can only ask questions about

something which is given to me. Something which I create myself, I

also determine myself, so that I do not need to ask for an explanation

for it.

This is the second step in our theory of knowledge. It consists in the

postulate: In the sphere of the given there must be something in

relation to which our activity does not hover in emptiness, but where

the content of the world itself enters this activity.

The starting point for our theory of knowledge was placed so that it

completely precedes the cognizing activity, and thus cannot prejudice

cognition and obscure it; in the same way, the next step has been

defined so that there can be no question of either error or

incorrectness. For this step does not prejudge any issue, but merely

shows what conditions are necessary if knowledge is to arise at all. It is

essential to remember that it is we ourselves who postulate what

characteristic feature that part of the world-content must possess with

which our activity of cognition can make a start.

This, in fact, is the only thing we can do. For the world-content as given

is completely undefined. No part of it of its own accord can provide the

occasion for setting it up as the starting point for bringing order into

chaos. The activity of cognition must therefore issue a decree and

declare what characteristics this starting point must manifest. Such a

decree in no way infringes on the quality of the given. It does not

introduce any arbitrary assertion into the science of epistemology. In

fact, it asserts nothing, but claims only that if knowledge is to be made

explainable, then we must look for some part of the given which can

provide a starting point for cognition, as described above. If this exists,

cognition can be explained, but not otherwise. Thus, while the given

provides the general starting point for our theory of knowledge, it must

now be narrowed down to some particular point of the given.

Let us now take a closer look at this demand. Where, within the world-

picture, do we find something that is not merely given, but only given

insofar as it is being produced in the actual act of cognition?

It is essential to realize that the activity of producing something in the

act of cognition must present itself to us as something also directly

given. It must not be necessary to draw conclusions before recognizing

it. This at once indicates that sense impressions do not meet our

requirements. For we cannot know directly but only indirectly that

sense impressions do not occur without activity on our part; this we

discover only by considering physical and physiological factors. But we

do know absolutely directly that concepts and ideas appear only in the

act of cognition and through this enter the sphere of the directly given.

In this respect concepts and ideas do not deceive anyone. A

hallucination may appear as something externally given, but one would

never take one's own concepts to be something given without one's own

thinking activity. A lunatic regards things and relations as real to which

are applied the predicate “reality,” although in fact they are not real;

but he would never say that his concepts and ideas entered the sphere

of the given without his own activity. It is a characteristic feature of all

the rest of our world-picture that it must be given if we are to

experience it; the only case in which the opposite occurs is that of

concepts and ideas: these we must produce if we are to experience

them. Concepts and ideas alone are given us in a form that could be

called intellectual seeing. Kant and the later philosophers who follow in

his steps, completely deny this ability to man, because it is said that all

thinking refers only to objects and does not itself produce anything. In

intellectual seeing the content must be contained within the thought-

form itself. But is this not precisely the case with pure concepts and

ideas? (By concept, I mean a principle according to which the

disconnected elements of perception become joined into a unity.

Causality, for example, is a concept. An idea is a concept with a greater

content. Organism, considered quite abstractly, is an idea.) However,

they must be considered in the form which they possess while still quite

free of any empirical content. If, for example, the pure idea of causality

is to be grasped, then one must not choose a particular instance of

causality or the sum total of all causality; it is essential to take hold of

the pure concept, Causality. Cause and effect must be sought in the

world, but before we can discover it in the world we ourselves must first

produce causality as a thought-form. If one clings to the Kantian

assertion that of themselves concepts are empty, it would be impossible

to use concepts to determine anything about the given world. Suppose

two elements of the world-content were given: a and b. If I am to find a

relation between them, I must do so with the help of a principle which

has a definite content; I can only produce this principle myself in the

act of cognition; I cannot derive it from the objects, for the definition of

the objects is only to be obtained by means of the principle. Thus a

principle by means of which we define objects belongs entirely to the

conceptual sphere alone.

Before proceeding further, a possible objection must be considered. It

might appear that this discussion is unconsciously introducing the

representation of the “I,” of the “personal subject,” and using it without

first justifying it. For example, in statements like “we produce

concepts” or “we insist on this or that.” But, in fact, my explanation

contains nothing which implies that such statements are more than

turns of phrase. As shown earlier, the fact that the act of cognition

depends upon and proceeds from an “I,” can be established only

through considerations which themselves make use of cognition. Thus,

to begin with, the discussion must be limited to the act of cognition

alone, without considering the cognizing subject. All that has been

established thus far is the fact that something “given” exists; and that

somewhere in this “given” the above described postulate arises; and

lastly, that this postulate corresponds to the sphere of concepts and

ideas. This is not to deny that its source is the “I.” But these two initial

steps in the theory of knowledge must first be defined in their pure

form.

COGNITION AND REALITY

CONCEPTS AND IDEAS, therefore, comprise part of the given and at

the same time lead beyond it. This makes it possible to define what

other activity is concerned in attaining knowledge.

Through a postulate we have separated from the rest of the given

world-picture a particular part of it; this was done because it lies in the

nature of cognition to start from just this particular part. Thus we

separated it out only to enable us to understand the act of cognition. In

so doing, it must be clear that we have artificially torn apart the unity of

the world-picture. We must realize that what we have separated out

from the given has an essential connection with the world content,

irrespective of our postulate. This provides the next step in the theory

of knowledge: it must consist in restoring that unity which we tore

apart in order to make knowledge possible. The act of restoration

consists in thinking about the world as given. Our thinking

consideration of the world brings about the actual union of the two

parts of the world content: the part we survey as given on the horizon of

our experience, and the part which has to be produced in the act of

cognition before that can be given also. The act of cognition is the

synthesis of these two elements. Indeed, in every single act of

cognition, one part appears as something produced within that act

itself, and, through the act, as added to the merely given. This part, in

actual fact, is always so produced, and only appears as something given

at the beginning of epistemological theory.

To permeate the world, as given, with concepts and ideas, is a thinking

consideration of things. Therefore, thinking is the act which mediates

knowledge. It is only when thinking arranges the world-picture by

means of its own activity that knowledge can come about. Thinking

itself is an activity which, in the moment of cognition, produces a

content of its own. Therefore, insofar as the content that is cognized

issues from thinking, it contains no problem for cognition. We have

only to observe it; the very nature of what we observe is given us

directly. A description of thinking is also at the same time the science of

thinking. Logic, too, has always been a description of thought-forms,

never a science that proves anything. Proof is only called for when the

content of thought is synthesized with some other content of the world.

Gideon Spicker is therefore quite right when he says in his book,

Lessings Weltanschauung, (Lessing's World-View), page 5, “We can

never experience, either empirically or logically, whether thinking in

itself is correct.” One could add to this that with thinking, all proof

ceases. For proof presupposes thinking. One may be able to prove a

particular fact, but one can never prove proof as such. We can only

describe what a proof is. In logic, all theory is pure empiricism; in the

science of logic there is only observation. But when we want to know

something other than thinking, we can do so only with the help of

thinking; this means that thinking has to approach something given

and transform its chaotic relationship with the world-picture into a

systematic one. This means that thinking approaches the given world-

content as an organizing principle. The process takes place as follows:

Thinking first lifts out certain entities from the totality of the world-

whole. In the given nothing is really separate; everything is a connected

continuum. Then thinking relates these separate entities to each other

in accordance with the thought-forms it produces, and also determines

the outcome of this relationship. When thinking restores a relationship

between two separate sections of the world-content, it does not do so

arbitrarily. Thinking waits for what comes to light of its own accord as

the result of restoring the relationship. And it is this result alone which

is knowledge of that particular section of the world content. If the latter

were unable to express anything about itself through that particular

relationship established by thinking, then this attempt made by

thinking would fail, and one would have to try again. All knowledge

depends on man's establishing a correct relationship between two or

more elements of reality, and comprehending the result of this.

There is no doubt that many of our attempts to grasp things by means

of thinking, fail; this is apparent not only in the history of science, but

also in ordinary life; it is just that in the simple cases we usually

encounter, the right concept replaces the wrong one so quickly that we

seldom or never become aware of the latter.

When Kant speaks of “the synthetic unity of apperception” it is evident

that he had some inkling of what we have shown here to be an activity

of thinking, the purpose of which is to organize the world-content

systematically. But the fact that he believed that the a priori laws of

pure science could be derived from the rules according to which this

synthesis takes place, shows how little this inkling brought to his

consciousness the essential task of thinking. He did not realize that this

synthetic activity of thinking is only a preparation for discovering

natural laws as such. Suppose, for example, that we detach one content,

a, from the world-picture, and likewise another, b. If we are to gain

knowledge of the law connecting a and b, then thinking must first

relate a to b so that through this relationship the connection between

them presents itself as given. Therefore, the actual content of a law of

nature is derived from the given, and the task of thinking is merely to

provide the opportunity for relating the elements of the world-picture

so that the laws connecting them come to light. Thus there is no

question of objective laws resulting from the synthetic activity of

thinking alone.

We must now ask what part thinking plays in building up our scientific

world-picture, in contrast to the merely given world-picture. Our

discussion shows that thinking provides the thought-forms to which

the laws that govern the world correspond. In the example given above,

let us assume a to be the cause and b the effect. The fact that a and b

are causally connected could never become knowledge if thinking were

not able to form the concept of causality. Yet in order to recognize, in a

given case, that a is the cause and b the effect, it is necessary for a and b

to correspond to what we understand by cause and effect. And this is

true of all other categories of thinking as well.

At this point it will be useful to refer briefly to Hume's description of

the concept of causality. Hume said that our concepts of cause and

effect are due solely to habit. We so often notice that a particular event

is followed by another that accordingly we form the habit of thinking of

them as causally connected, i.e. we expect the second event to occur

whenever we observe the first. But this viewpoint stems from a

mistaken representation of the relationship concerned in causality.

Suppose that I always meet the same people every day for a number of

days when I leave my house; it is true that I shall then gradually come

to expect the two events to follow one another, but in this case it would

never occur to me to look for a causal connection between the other

persons and my own appearance at the same spot. I would look to quite

different elements of the world-content in order to explain the facts

involved. In fact, we never do determine a causal connection to be such

from its sequence in time, but from its own content as part of the

world-content which is that of cause and effect.

The activity of thinking is only a formal one in the upbuilding of our

scientific world-picture, and from this it follows that no cognition can

have a content which is a priori, in that it is established prior to

observation (thinking divorced from the given); rather must the

content be acquired wholly through observation. In this sense all our

knowledge is empirical. Nor is it possible to see how this could be

otherwise. Kant's judgments a priori fundamentally are not cognition,

but are only postulates. In the Kantian sense, one can always only say:

If a thing is to be the object of any kind of experience, then it must

conform to certain laws. Laws in this sense are regulations which the

subject prescribes for the objects. Yet one would expect that if we are to

attain knowledge of the given then it must be derived, not from the

subject, but from the object.

Thinking says nothing a priori about the given; it produces a posteriori,

i.e. the thought-form, on the basis of which the conformity to law of the

phenomena becomes apparent.

Seen in this light, it is obvious that one can say nothing a priori about

the degree of certainty of a judgment attained through cognition. For

certainty, too, can be derived only from the given. To this it could be

objected that observation only shows that some connection between

phenomena once occurred, but not that such a connection must occur,

and in similar cases always will occur. This assumption is also wrong.

When I recognize some particular connection between elements of the

world-picture, this connection is provided by these elements

themselves; it is not something I think into them, but is an essential

part of them, and must necessarily be present whenever the elements

themselves are present.

Only if it is considered that scientific effort is merely a matter of

combining facts of experience according to subjective principles which

are quite external to the facts themselves, — only such an outlook could

believe that a and b may be connected by one law to-day and by

another to-morrow (John Stuart Mill). Someone who recognizes that

the laws of nature originate in the given and therefore themselves

constitute the connection between the phenomena and determine

them, will not describe laws discovered by observation as merely of

comparative universality. This is not to assert that a natural law which

at one stage we assume to be correct must therefore be universally valid

as well. When a later event disproves a law, this does not imply that the

law had only a limited validity when first discovered, but rather that we

failed to ascertain it with complete accuracy. A true law of nature is

simply the expression of a connection within the given world-picture,

and it exists as little without the facts it governs as the facts exist

without the law.

We have established that the nature of the activity of cognition is to

permeate the given world-picture with concepts and ideas by means of

thinking. What follows from this fact? If the directly-given were a

totality, complete in itself, then such an elaboration of it by means of

cognition would be both impossible and unnecessary. We should then

simply accept the given as it is, and would be satisfied with it in that

form. The act of cognition is possible only because the given contains

something hidden; this hidden does not appear as long as we consider

only its immediate aspect; the hidden aspect only reveals itself through

the order that thinking brings into the given. In other words, what the

given appears to be before it has been elaborated by thinking, is not its

full totality.

This becomes clearer when we consider more closely the factors

concerned in the act of cognition. The first of these is the given. That it

is given is not a feature of the given, but is only an expression for its

relation to the second factor in the act of cognition. Thus what the given

is as such remains quite undecided by this definition. The second factor

is the conceptual content of the given; it is found by thinking, in the act

of cognition, to be necessarily connected with the given. Let us now ask:

1) Where is the division between given and concept? 2) And where are

they united? The answers to both of these questions are undoubtedly to

be found in the preceding discussion. The division occurs solely in the

act of cognition. In the given they are united. This shows that the

conceptual content must necessarily be a part of the given, and also

that the act of cognition consists in reuniting the two parts of the

world-picture, which to begin with are given to cognition separated

from each other. Therefore, the given world-picture becomes complete

only through that other, indirect kind of given which is brought to it by

thinking. The immediate aspect of the world-picture reveals itself as

quite incomplete to begin with.

If, in the world-content, the thought-content were united with the given

from the first, no knowledge would exist, and the need to go beyond the

given would never arise. If, on the other hand, we were to produce the

whole content of the world in and by means of thinking alone, no

knowledge would exist either. What we ourselves produce we have no

need to know. Knowledge therefore rests upon the fact that the world-

content is originally given to us in incomplete form; it possesses

another essential aspect, apart from what is directly present. This

second aspect of the world-content, which is not originally given, is

revealed through thinking. Therefore the content of thinking, which

appears to us to be something separate, is not a sum of empty thought-

forms, but comprises determinations (categories); however, in relation

to the rest of the world content, these determinations represent the

organizing principle. The world-content can be called reality only in

the form it attains when the two aspects of it described above have

been united through knowledge.

THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE FREE OF ASSUMPTIONS AND

FICHTE'S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE

WE HAVE NOW defined the idea of knowledge. In the act of cognition

this idea is directly given in human consciousness. Both outer and

inner perceptions, as well as its own presence are given directly to the

“I,” which is the center of consciousness. (It is hardly necessary to say

that here “center” is not meant to denote a particular theory of

consciousness, but is used merely for the sake of brevity in order to

designate consciousness as a whole.) The I feels a need to discover

more in the given than is directly contained in it. In contrast to the

given world, a second world — the world of thinking — rises up to meet

the I and the I unites the two through its own free decision, producing

what we have defined as the idea of knowledge. Here we see the

fundamental difference between the way the concept and the directly

given are united within human consciousness to form full reality, and

the way they are found united in the remainder of the world-content. In

the entire remainder of the world picture we must conceive an original

union which is an inherent necessity; an artificial separation occurs

only in relation to knowledge at the point where cognition begins;

cognition then cancels out this separation once more, in accordance

with the original nature of the objective world. But in human

consciousness the situation is different. Here the union of the two

factors of reality depends upon the activity of consciousness In all other

objects, the separation has no significance for the objects themselves,

but only for knowledge. Their union is original and their separation is

derived from the union. Cognition separates them only because its

nature is such that it cannot grasp their union without having first

separated them. But the concept and the given reality of consciousness

are originally separated, and their union is derived from their original

separation; this is why cognition has the character described here. Just

because, in consciousness, idea and given are necessarily separated, for

consciousness the whole of reality divides into these two factors; and

again, just because consciousness can unite them only by its own

activity, it can arrive at full reality only by performing the act of

cognition. All other categories (ideas), whether or not they are grasped

in cognition, are necessarily united with their corresponding forms of

the given. But the idea of knowledge can be united with its

corresponding given only by the activity of consciousness.

Consciousness as a reality exists only if it produces itself. I believe that

I have now cleared the ground sufficiently to enable us to understand

Fichte's Science of Knowledge through recognition of the fundamental

mistake contained in it. Of all Kant's successors, Fichte is the one who

felt most keenly that only a theory of consciousness could provide the

foundation for knowledge in any form, yet he never came to recognize

why this is so. He felt that what I have called the second step in the

theory of knowledge, and which I formulated as a postulate, must be

actively performed by the I. This can be seen, for example, from these

words:

“The science of knowledge, insofar as it is to be a systematic science, is

built up in the same manner in which all possible sciences, insofar as

they are systematic, are built up, that is, through a determination of

freedom; which freedom, in the science of knowledge, is particularly

determined: to become conscious of the general manner of acting of the

intelligence. ... By means of this free act, something which is in itself

already form, namely, the necessary act of the intelligence, is taken up

as content and put into a new form, that is, the form of knowledge or of

consciousness. ...”

What does Fichte here mean by the “acting of intelligence” if we

express in clear concepts what he dimly felt? Nothing other than the

production of the idea of knowledge, taking place in consciousness.

Had Fichte become clear about this, then he would have formulated the

above principle as follows: A science of knowledge has the task of

bringing to consciousness the act of cognition, insofar as it is still an

unconscious activity of the I; it must show that to objectify the idea of

knowledge is a necessary deed of the I.

In his attempt to define the activity of the I, Fichte comes to the

conclusion: “The I as absolute subject is something, the being (essence)

of which consists merely in postulating its own existence.” For Fichte,

this postulation of the I is the primal unconditioned deed, “it is the

basis of all consciousness.” Therefore, in Fichte's sense too, the I can

begin to be active only through an absolute original decision. But for

Fichte it is impossible to find the actual content for this original activity

postulated by the I. He had nothing toward which this activity could be

directed or by which it could be determined. The I is to do something,

but what is it to do? Fichte did not formulate the concept of knowledge

which the I must produce, and in consequence he strove in vain to

define any further activity of the I beyond its original deed. In fact, he

finally stated that to investigate any such further activity does not lie

within the scope of theory. In his deduction of representation, he does

not begin from any absolute activity of the I or of the not-I, but he

starts from a state of determination which, at the same time, itself

determines, because in his view nothing else is, or can be contained

directly in consciousness. What in turn determines the state of

determination is left completely undecided in his theory; and because

of this uncertainty, one is forced beyond theory into practical

application of the science of knowledge. However, through this

statement Fichte completely abolishes all cognition. For the practical

activity of the I belongs to a different sphere altogether. The postulate

which I put forward above can clearly be produced by the I only in an

act which is free, which is not first determined; but when the I cognizes,

the important point is that the decision to do so is directed toward

producing the idea of cognition. No doubt the I can do much else

through free decision. But if epistemology is to be the foundation of all

knowledge, the decisive point is not to have a definition of an I that is

“free,” but of an I that “cognizes.” Fichte has allowed himself to be too

much influenced by his subjective inclinations to present the freedom

of the human personality in the clearest possible light. Harms, in his

address, On the Philosophy of Fichte, (p. 15) rightly says: “His world-

view is predominantly and exclusively ethical, and his theory of

knowledge has no other feature.” Cognition would have no task to fulfill

whatever if all spheres of reality were given in their totality. But the I,

so long as it has not been inserted by thinking into the systematic whole

of the world-picture, also exists as something merely directly given, so

that it does not suffice to point to its activity. Yet Fichte is of the

opinion that where the I is concerned, all that is necessary is to seek

and find it. “We have to search for the absolute, first, and

unconditioned fundamental principle of human knowledge. It cannot

be proven nor determined if it is to be absolute first principle.” We

have seen that the only instance where proof and definitions are not

required is in regard to the content of pure logic. The I, however,

belongs to reality, where it is necessary to establish the presence of this

or that category within the given. This Fichte does not do. And this is

why he gave his science of knowledge a mistaken form. Zeller remarks

that the logical formulas by which Fichte attempts to arrive at the

concept of the I only lightly hide his predetermined purpose to reach

his goal at any cost, so that the I could become his starting point. These

words refer to the first form in which Fichte presented his science of

knowledge in 1794. When it is realized that, owing to the whole trend of

his philosophy, Fichte could not be content with any starting point for

knowledge other than an absolute decree, it becomes clear that he has

only two possibilities for making this beginning appear intelligible. One

possibility is to focus the attention on one or another of the empirical

activities of consciousness, and then crystallize out the pure concept of

the I by gradually stripping away everything that did not originally

belong to consciousness. The other possibility is to start directly with

the original activity of the I, and then to bring its nature to light

through self-contemplation and self-observation. Fichte chose the first

possibility at the beginning of his philosophical path, but gradually

went over to the second.

On the basis of Kant's synthesis of “transcendental apperception” [The

perception of an object involving the consciousness of the pure self as

subject. (Translator)] Fichte came to the conclusion that the activity of

the I consists entirely in combining the material of experience into the

form of judgment. To judge means to combine predicate with subject.

This is stated purely formally in the expression: a == a. This

proposition could not be made if the unknown factor x which unites the

two a's did not rest on an absolute ability of the I, to postulate. For the

proposition does not mean a exists, but rather: if a exists, then so does

a. In other words there is no question of postulating a absolutely. In

order, therefore, to arrive at something which is valid in a quite

straightforward way, the only possibility is to declare the act of

postulating as such to be absolute. Therefore, while a is conditional the

postulation of a is itself unconditional. This postulation, however, is a

deed of the I. To the I is ascribed the absolute and unconditional ability

to postulate. In the proposition a == a, one a is postulated only because

the other a is already postulated, and indeed is postulated by the I. “If a

is postulated in the I, then it is postulated, or then it is.” This

connection is possible only on condition that there exists in the I

something which is always constant, something that leads over from

one a to the other. The above mentioned x is based on this constant

element. The I which postulates the one a is the same as the I which

postulates the other a. This means that I == I. This proposition

expressed in the form of a judgment: If the I exists, then the I exists, is

meaningless. The I is not postulated by presupposing another I; it

presupposes itself. This means: the I simply is, absolutely and

unconditionally. The hypothetical form of a judgment, which is the

form of all judgments, when an absolute I is not presupposed, here is

transformed into a principle of absolute existence: I simply am. Fichte

also expresses this as follows: “The I originally and absolutely

postulates its own being.” This whole deduction of Fichte's is clearly

nothing but a kind of pedagogical discussion, the aim of which is to

guide his reader to the point where knowledge of the unconditional

activity of the I dawns in him. His aim is to bring the activity of the I

emphatically home to the reader, for without this activity there is no I.

Let us now survey Fichte's line of thought once more. On closer

inspection one sees that there is a break in its sequence; a break,

indeed, of a kind that casts doubt upon the correctness of his view of

the original deed of the I. What is essentially absolute when the I

postulates? The judgment is made: If a exists, then so does a. The a is

postulated by the I. There can, therefore, be no doubt about the

postulation as such. But even if the I is unconditioned insofar as its own

activity is concerned, nevertheless the I cannot but postulate

something. It cannot postulate the “activity, as such, by itself,” but only

a definite activity. In short: the postulation must have a content.

However, the I cannot derive this content from itself, for by itself it can

do no more than eternally postulate its own postulation. Therefore

there must be something which is produced by this postulation, by this

absolute activity of the I. Unless the I sets to work on something given

which it postulates, it cando “nothing” and hence cannot postulate

either. Fichte's own principle actually shows this: The I postulates its

existence. This existence is a category. This means we have arrived at

our principle: The activity of the I is to postulate, as a free decision, the

concepts and ideas of the given. Fichte arrives at his conclusion only

because he unconsciously sets out to prove that the I “exists.” Had he

worked out the concept of cognition, he would then have arrived at the

true starting point of a theory of knowledge, namely: The I postulates

cognition. Because Fichte is not clear as to what it is that determines

the activity of the I, he simply characterizes this activity as the

postulation of being, of existence. In doing so, he also limits the

absolute activity of the I. If the I is only unconditioned in its

“postulation of existence.” everything else the I does must be

conditioned. But then, all possible ways to pass from what is

unconditioned to the conditioned are blocked. If the I is unconditioned

only in the one direction described, it immediately ceases to be possible

for the I to postulate, through an absolute act, anything but its own

being. This makes it necessary to indicate the basis on which all the

other activities of the I depend. Fichte sought for this in vain, as we

have already seen.

This is why he turned to the other of the two possibilities indicated for

deducing the I. As early as 1797, in his First Introduction to the Science

of Knowledge, he recommends self-observation as the right method for

attaining knowledge of the essential being of the I:

“Be aware of yourself, withdraw your attention from all that surrounds

you and turn it toward your inner being — this is the first demand that

philosophy makes on the pupil. What is essential is not outside of you,

but solely within yourself.

To introduce the science of knowledge in this way is indeed a great

advance on his earlier introduction. In self-observation, the activity of

the I is actually seen, not one-sidedly turned in a particular direction,

not as merely postulating existence, but revealing many aspects of itself

as it strives to grasp the directly given world-content in thinking. Self-

observation reveals the I engaged in the activity of building up the

world-picture by combining the given with concepts. However,

someone who has not elaborated the above considerations for himself

— and who therefore does not know that the I only arrives at the full

content of reality when it approaches the given with its thought-forms

— for him, the process of knowledge appears to consist in spinning the

world out of the I itself. This is why Fichte sees the world-picture more

and more as a construction of the I. He emphasizes ever more strongly

that for the science of knowledge it is essential to awaken the faculty for

watching the I while it constructs the world. He who is able to do this

appears to Fichte to be at a higher stage of knowledge than someone

who is able to see only the construction, the finished product. He who

considers only the world of objects does not recognize that they have

first been created by the I. He who observes the I while it constructs,

sees the foundation of the finished world-picture; he knows the means

by which it has come into being, and it appears to him as the result of

presuppositions which for him are given. Ordinary consciousness sees

only what is postulated, what is in some way or other determined; it

does not provide insight into the premises, into the reasons why

something is postulated in just the way it is, and not otherwise. For

Fichte it is the task of a completely new sense organ to mediate

knowledge of these premises. This he expresses most clearly in his

Introductory Lecture to the Science of Knowledge, delivered at Berlin

University in the autumn of 1813:

“This science presupposes a completely new inner sense organ, through

which a new world is revealed which does not exist for the ordinary

man at all.” “The world revealed by this new sense, and therefore also

the sense itself, is so far clearly defined: it consists in seeing the

premises on which is based the judgment that ‘something is’; that is,

seeing the foundation of existence which, just because it is the

foundation, is in itself nothing else and cannot be defined.”

Here too, Fichte lacks clear insight into the content of the activity

carried out by the I. And he never attained this insight. That is why his

science of knowledge could never become what he intended it to be: a

philosophical foundation for science in general in the form of a theory

of knowledge. Had he once recognized that the activity of the I can only

be postulated by the I itself, this insight would also have led him to see

that the activity must likewise be determined by the I itself. This,

however, can occur only by a content being given to the otherwise

purely formal activity of the I. As this content must be introduced by

the I itself into its otherwise quite undetermined activity, the activity as

such must also be determined by the I itself in accordance with the I's

own nature. Otherwise its activity could not be postulated by the I, but

at most by a “thing-in-itself” within the I, whose instrument the I would

be. Had Fichte attempted to discover how the I determines its own

activity, he would have arrived at the concept of knowledge which is to

be produced by the I. Fichte's science of knowledge proves that even

the acutest thinker cannot successfully contribute to any field of

knowledge if he is unable to come to the right thought-form (category,

idea) which, when supplemented by the given, constitutes reality. Such

a thinker is like a person to whom wonderful melodies are played, but

he does not hear them because he lacks an ear for music.

Consciousness, as given, can be described only by someone who knows

how to take possession of the “idea of consciousness.”

Fichte once came very near the truth. In his Introduction to the Science

of Knowledge (1797), he says that there are two theoretical systems:

dogmatism — in which the I is determined by the objects; and idealism

— in which the objects are determined by the I. In his opinion both are

possible world-views. Both are capable of being built up into a

consistent system. But the adherents of dogmatism must renounce the

independence of the I and make it dependent on the “thing-in-itself.”

For the adherents of idealism, the opposite is the case. Which of the

two systems a philosopher is to choose, Fichte leaves completely to the

preference of the individual. But if one wishes the I to retain its

independence, then one will cease to believe in external things and

devote oneself to idealism.

This line of thought fails to consider one thing, namely that the I cannot

reach any choice or decision which has some real foundation if it does

not presuppose something which enables it to do so. Everything

determined by the I remains empty and without content if the I does

not find something that is full of content and determined through and

through, which then makes it possible for the I to determine the given

and, in doing so, also enables it to choose between idealism and

dogmatism. This something which is permeated with content through

and through is, however, the world of thinking. And to determine the

given by means of thinking is to cognize. No matter from what aspect

Fichte is considered, we shall find that his line of thought gains power

and life when we think of the activity of the I, which he presents as grey

and empty of content, as filled and organized by what we have called

the process of cognition.

The I is freely able to become active of itself, and therefore it can also

produce the category of cognition through self-determination; in the

rest of the world, by objective necessity the categories are connected

with the given corresponding to them. It must be the task of ethics and

metaphysics to investigate the nature of this free self-determination, on

the basis of our theory of knowledge. These sciences will also have to

discuss whether the I is able to objectify ideas other than those of

cognition. The present discussion shows that the I is free when it

cognizes, when it objectifies the ideas of cognition. For when the

directly given and the thought-form belonging to it are united by the I

in the process of cognition, then the union of these two elements of

reality — which otherwise would forever remain separated in

consciousness — can only take place through a free act.

Our discussion sheds a completely new light on critical idealism.

Anyone who has acquainted himself intimately with Fichte's system

will know that it was a point of vital importance for this philosopher to

uphold the principle that nothing from the external world can enter the

I, that nothing takes place in the I which is not originally postulated by

the I itself. Yet it is beyond all doubt that no idealism can derive from

the I that form of the world-content which is here described as the

directly given. This form of the world-content can only be given; it can

never be constructed out of thinking. One need only consider that if all

the colors were given us with the exception of one single shade, even

then we could not begin to provide that shade out of the I alone. We can

form a picture of distant regions that we have never seen, provided we

have once personally experienced, as given, the various elements

needed to form the picture. Then, out of the single facts given us, we

combine the picture according to given information. We should strive

in vain to invent for ourselves even a single perceptual element that has

never appeared within our sphere of the given. It is, however, one thing

merely to be aware of the given world: it is quite another to recognize

its essential nature. This latter, though intimately connected with the

world-content, does not become clear to us unless we ourselves build

up reality out of the given and the activity of thinking. The essential

What of the given is postulated for the I only through the I itself. Yet

the I would have no occasion to postulate within itself the nature of

something given if it did not first find itself confronted by a completely

undetermined given. Therefore, what is postulated by the I as the

nature and being of the world is not postulated without the I, but

through it.

The true shape is not the first in which reality comes before the I, but

the shape the I gives it. That first shape, in fact, has no significance for

the objective world; it is significant only as a basis for the process of

cognition. Thus it is not that shape which the theory of knowledge gives

to the world which is subjective; the subjective shape is that in which

the I at first encounters it. If, like Volkelt and others, one wishes to call

this given world “experience,” then one will have to say: The world-

picture which, owing to the constitution of our consciousness, appears

to us in a subjective form as experience, is completed through

knowledge to become what it really is.

Our theory of knowledge supplies the foundation for true idealism in

the real sense of the word. It establishes the conviction that in thinking

the essence of the world is mediated. Through thinking alone the

relationship between the details of the world-content become manifest,

be it the relation of the sun to the stone it warms, or the relation of the I

to the external world. In thinking alone the element is given which

determines all things in their relations to one another.

An objection which Kantianism could still bring forward would be that

the definition of the given described above holds good in the end only

for the I. To this I must reply that according to the view of the world

outlined here, the division between I and external world, like all other

divisions, is valid only within the given and from this it follows that the

term “for the I” has no significance when things have been understood

by thinking, because thinking unites all opposites. The I ceases to be

seen as something separated from the external world when the world is

permeated by thinking; it therefore no longer makes sense to speak of

definitions as being valid for the I only.

EPISTEMOLOGICAL CONCLUSION

WE HAVE ESTABLISHED that the theory of knowledge is a science of

significance for all human knowledge. The theory of knowledge alone

can explain to us the relationship which the contents of the various

branches of knowledge have to the world. Combined with them it

enables us to understand the world, to attain a world-view. We acquire

positive insight through particular judgments; through the theory of

knowledge we learn the value of this insight for reality. Because we

have adhered strictly to this absolutely fundamental principle and have

not evaluated any particular instances of knowledge in our discussion,

we have transcended all one-sided world-views. Onesidedness, as a

rule, results from the fact that the enquiry, instead of first investigating

the process of cognition itself, immediately approaches some object of

this process. Our discussion has shown that in dogmatism, the “thing-

in-itself” cannot be employed as its fundamental principle; similarly, in

subjective idealism, the “I” cannot be fundamental, for the mutual

relationship of these principles must first be defined by thinking. The

“thing-in-itself” and “I” cannot be defined by deriving one from the

other; both must be defined by thinking in conformity with their

character and relationship. The adherent of scepticism must cease to

doubt the possibility of knowing the world, for there is no room for

doubt in regard to the “given” — it is still untouched by all predicates

later bestowed on it by means of cognition. Should the sceptic maintain

that our cognitive thinking can never approach the world, he can only

maintain this with the help of thinking, and in so doing refutes himself.

Whoever attempts to establish doubt in thinking by means of thinking

itself admits, by implication, that thinking contains a power strong

enough to support a conviction. Lastly, our theory of knowledge

transcends both onesided empiricism and onesided rationalism by

uniting them at a higher level. In this way, justice is done to both.

Empiricism is justified by showing that as far as content is concerned,

all knowledge of the given is to be attained only through direct contact

with the given. And it will be found that this view also does justice to

rationalism in that thinking is declared to be both the necessary and

the only mediator of knowledge.

The world-view which has the closest affinity to the one presented here,

built up on epistemological foundations, is that of A. E. Biedermann.

But to establish his standpoint, Biedermann uses concepts which do

not belong in a theory of knowledge at all. He works with concepts such

as existence, substance, space, time, etc., without having first

investigated the process of cognition alone. Instead of first establishing

the fact that in the process of cognition, to begin with, two elements

only are present, the given and thinking — he speaks of reality as

existing in different forms. For example, he says:

“Every content of consciousness contains two fundamental factors; two

kinds of existence are given to us in it, and these opposites we designate

as physical and spiritual, or as bodily and ideal.” (¶ 15) “What exists in

space and time is material, but the foundation of all processes of

existence, the subject of life, this also exists, but as an ideal; it has ideal

being.” (¶ 19)

Such considerations do not belong in a theory of knowledge, but in

metaphysics, which in turn can be established only by means of a

theory of knowledge. Admittedly, much of what Biedermann maintains

is very similar to what I maintain, but the methods used to arrive at this

are utterly different. No reason to draw any direct comparison has thus

arisen. Biedermann seeks to attain an epistemological standpoint by

means of a few metaphysical axioms. The attempt here is to acquire

insight into reality by observing the process of cognition.

And we believe that we have shown that all conflicts between world-

views result from a tendency to attempt to attain knowledge of

something objective (thing, I, consciousness, etc.) without having first

gained a sufficiently exact knowledge of what alone can elucidate all

knowledge: the nature of knowledge itself.

PRACTICAL CONCLUSION

THE AIM OF THE preceding discussion has been to throw light on the

relationship between our cognizing personality and the objective world.

What does the possession of knowledge and science mean for us? This

was the question to which we sought the answer.

Our discussion has shown that the innermost core of the world comes

to expression in our knowledge. The harmony of laws ruling

throughout the universe shines forth in human cognition.

It is part of man's task to bring into the sphere of apparent reality the

fundamental laws of the universe which, although they rule all

existence, would never come to existence as such. The very nature of

knowledge is that the world-foundation, which is not to be found as

such in objective reality, is present in it. Our knowledge — pictorially

expressed — is a gradual, living penetration into the world's

foundation.

A conviction such as this must also necessarily throw light upon our

comprehension of practical life.

Our moral ideals determine the whole character of our conduct in life.

Our moral ideals are ideas which we have of our task in life — in other

words, the ideas we form of what we should bring about through our

deeds.

Our action is part of the universal world-process. It is therefore also

subject to the general laws of that world-process.

Whenever something takes place in the universe, two things must be

distinguished: the external course the event follows in space and time,

and the inner law ruling it.

To recognize this law in the sphere of human conduct is simply a

special instance of cognition. This means that the insight we have

gained concerning the nature of knowledge must be applicable here

also. To know oneself to be at one with one's deeds means to possess, as

knowledge, the moral concepts and ideals that correspond to the deeds.

If we recognize these laws, then our deeds are also our own creations.

In such instances the laws are not something given, that is, they are not

outside the object in which the activity appears; they are the content of

the object itself, engaged in living activity. The object in this case is our

own I. If the I has really penetrated its deed with full insight, in

conformity with its nature, then it also feels itself to be master. As long

as this is not the case, the laws ruling the deed confront us as

something foreign, they rule us; what we do is done under the

compulsion they exert over us. If they are transformed from being a

foreign entity into a deed completely originating within our own I, then

the compulsion ceases. That which compelled us, has become our own

being. The laws no longer rule over us; in us they rule over the deed

issuing from our I. To carry out a deed under the influence of a law

external to the person who brings the deed to realization, is a deed

done in unfreedom. To carry out a deed ruled by a law that lies within

the one who brings it about, is a deed done in freedom. To recognize

the laws of one's deeds, means to become conscious of one's own

freedom. Thus the process of knowledge is the process of development

toward freedom.

Not all our deeds have this character. Often we do not possess

knowledge of the laws governing our deeds. Such deeds form a part of

our activity which is unfree. In contrast, there is that other part where

we make ourselves completely at one with the laws. This is the free

sphere. Only insofar as man is able to live in this sphere, can he be

called moral. To transform the first sphere of our activity into one that

has the character of the second is the task of every individual's

development, as well as the task of mankind as a whole.

The most important problem of all human thinking is: to understand

man as a free personality, whose very foundation is himself.